As Mr. Morgan had foretold, the crate was high and dry, and they examined it with interest in the light of the torch. It was a strongly made wooden box about three feet by two by two. All round at top and bottom were strengthening cross-pieces, and it was beneath the upper of these that the two flukes of the grappling had caught.
“Well and truly hooked,” Mr. Morgan remarked. “We must have drifted across the thing, and when we pulled up the grappling it slid up the side till it caught the cross-piece. It’s a good job for us, for now we shall get our grappling and our hooks as well.”
Evan fidgetted impatiently.
“Don’t mind about them, dad; we can unfasten them later. Open the box. I want to see what’s in it.”
Mr. Morgan put his cold chisel to the joint of the lid and began to hammer.
“Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t do this,” he declared as he worked. “We should have handed the thing over to Manners. It’s a job for the coast-guards. However, here goes!”
The crate was strongly made, and though Mr. Morgan was a good amateur carpenter, it took him several minutes to open it. But at last one of the top boards was prized up. Instantly both became conscious of a heavy, nauseating smell.
“A case of South American meat or something gone west,” Mr. Morgan commented. “I don’t know that I’m so keen on going on with this job. Perhaps we can see what it is without opening it up further.”
Holding his breath, he put his eye to the slit and shone in a beam from the electric torch. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath he rose.
“It’s a disgusting smell,” he said in rather shaky tones. “Let’s go round and ask Manners to finish the job.”